Dear friends,

Happy (almost) New Year! I hope that you had a warm, wonderful holiday. I’m writing to you from my perch next to the Christmas tree, where I’m drinking an array of beverages (tea with milk and honey, cider, sparkling water) and reveling in the fact that I turned on my vacation responder one week ago today. In the spirit of Tsh Oxenreider’s “unweek” (the week between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day where time has virtually no meaning), I’ve been dedicating these days to reading (at present, How Catholic Art Saved the Faith by Elizabeth Lev), watching (White Christmas, Meet Me in St. Louis, The Bishop’s Wife), listening (Adrianne Lenker, mostly), and remaining indoors, staunchly situated near the teapot.1

How was your Christmas? I went to Christmas Eve Vigil Mass at the local parish, and after dinner, spent the evening listening to the final two Staves of A Christmas Carol, courtesy of Faith Moore’s lovely podcast Storytime for Grownups. A Christmas Carol is one of my several annual rereads, as is Revelations of Divine Love by Julian of Norwich in the spring. And each year, I’m reminded anew of how poignant and important this novella of Dickens has been since its original publication in 1843.

I was particularly struck by this line from Marley in Stave One:

“Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode! Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted me?”2

In this scene, the Ghost of Old Marley is expressing regret to Scrooge in order to prevent Scrooge from succumbing to the same fate. He sees himself in Scrooge and, even in death, desires better for his former colleague. At the core of Marley’s existence as a ghost is this enduring, eternal experience of sorrow. He is quite literally weighed down by his past- a past symbolized by his chains. And this core idea- that regret leads to renewal- is a key theme throughout A Christmas Carol.

All three Ghosts offer Scrooge the hindsight that is essential to 1) regret the error of his ways and, from this regret, 2) be presented with a catalyst for reentering the world transformed. Make no mistake: the regret Scrooge experiences is a deeply uncomfortable emotion. Regret reveals to him the life that he could have been living, and is also what prompts him to beg the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come to “sponge away the writing on the stone.” It’s a thematic tool throughout the story without which the transformation at its core simply isn’t possible.

Regret, in A Christmas Carol, leads to repentance, which then catalyzes renewal.

What role should Scrooge’s regret play in our moral lives and spiritual practices as we look ahead to 2025?

I read a really wonderful article by O. Alan Noble this past week, on whether regret is good for Christians. He opens this article by discussing Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, which is an interesting foundation for his essay for many reasons. (If, for whatever reason, you want to read Nicomachean Ethics, I might direct you towards the 2nd Edition Terrence Irwin translation done for Hackett.)3 In Book 3 of Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle suggests that voluntary actions are praiseworthy or blameworthy, so a person is always responsible for their voluntary actions. An action is involuntary when it takes place by force or ignorance, and force occurs when the moving principle is external to the person acting. Involuntary actions are regretted, whereas voluntary actions are not.

Noble writes:

“I think regret serves a valuable purpose in motivating us toward future virtues. Without regretting past mistakes we are inviting ourselves to repeat them. Even as Christians who are forgiven for past sins and live under grace, regret, when it is godly regret, can urge us on toward righteousness. There is a space for regret in our lives, and if we don’t make space for it, I suspect it will only manifest itself in other, less pleasant ways.”4

As Noble points out in his essay, there are, quite obviously, both helpful and harmful ways to engage with regret. We shouldn’t avoid or suppress regret. We should utilize regret as a tool for reflecting on our past and growing in virtue. We shouldn’t leave our conscience unexamined, à la Ebeneezer Scrooge. We should confront our behavior and continue to examine our motivations. We shouldn’t use regret as a way to self-flagellate. We should see regret as a fundamental, internal display of honesty- as both morally necessary and spiritually essential.

It’s here that I think of the profound and poignant animated film Song of the Sea.5

Song of the Sea is a 2014 reimagining of Celtic folklore that follows the journey of a young boy named Ben and his mute sister, Saoirse. Their father, Conor, is consumed by sorrow after the mysterious disappearance of their mother, Bronagh, shortly after Saoirse’s birth. Unable to cope with his grief, Conor withdraws into silence and anger, creating emotional distance from his children.

The siblings embark on a quest alongside their sheepdog Cú, helping Saoirse- a girl who is part selkie, as she is a seal in the water and human on land- recover her mother’s sealskin coat so that they can free the faire-folk, who are trapped by the Owl Witch, a character based on the Irish goddess Macha. The Old Witch seeks to save others from their experiences of suffering by turning them to stone, enclosing their strong emotions in glass jars. She truly believes that her acts are done of mercy.

Through the course of their journey (which I will not spoil!), Ben, Saoirse, and their father come to understand that repressing grief, and other “negative” emotions, causes harm not only to the individual, but to those that they love.

It’s a story that conveys, in the form of a deeply poignant selkie legend, an essential truth: without grief, love struggles to survive.

Grief, the film suggests, is an acknowledgment of the weight of what has been lost or left undone. And just as grief makes space for fundamental renewal, regret allows us to confront our failings honestly, giving us the clarity and humility to love more fully. In Song of the Sea, Conor’s inability to process his grief creates a stone wall between him and his children, preventing him from fully accepting the love offered by Ben and Saoirse. It is only when he is forced to confront this grief that healing begins, and the bonds of familial connection are restored.6

To me, this mirrors the role that regret plays in our moral and spiritual lives. Similar to grief, regret cannot be an emotion that we fear, ignore, or suppress, as we must allow it to accompany us, as would a friend, in our travels. Both grief and regret demand our honesty and courage. To live well and to love well, we must allow regret to refine us, just as we must let grief shape our capacity for empathy and connection. Without either, we risk living shallowly in relation to others, refusing to engage with both the depth of our humanity and the demands of love.

And that speaks to what I love about the sacrament of confession.

Confession in the Catholic Church is often misunderstood by those outside the faith- and, honestly, even by those within it. It’s frequently caricatured as a transactional exchange: you confess your sins, say a Hail Mary, and return a month later to do this again. Some even see it as an outdated ritual, unnecessary in an age that is already distinguished by both isolation and individualism.

Some misconceptions that I’ve heard about the sacrament include:

• “There’s no point in confessing to a priest when you could just go directly to God in asking for forgiveness.”

  The priest, who acts in the person of Christ, is a channel for God's forgiveness and mercy, helping guide the penitent toward reconciliation.

• "Confession is only for those who have committed mortal sins."

  Confession is for both mortal and venial sins, as venial sins can also be confessed to resist sin and to help strengthen one’s relationship with God and the Church.

• "Confession is about just saying your sins and then moving on."

  Confession is not a transactional act of listing sins; rather, Catholics are able to reflect on their actions, express true sorrow, and continually seek God’s grace.

• “You’re giving a priest the power to forgive sins instead of God.”

  The priest acts in persona Christi (in the person of Christ), meaning he is an instrument of Christ’s forgiveness. He is the mediator offering absolution.

• "Confession is a private, individual act with no communal impact."

  Confession has communal significance because it restores the penitent to the communal Body. It is an act of reconciliation with both God and community.

• "You must go to confession frequently to be a good Catholic.”

  Catholics must go to confession at least once a year, but emphasis should be placed on a sincere desire for repentance, openness to God’s grace, and a commitment to live according to Christ’s teachings, more than just fulfilling a requirement.

(I might also suggest that one’s experience of confession will probably not be anything like Fleabag’s encounter with the Hot Priest in Season 2, Episode 4.)

In reality, the Sacrament of Reconciliation is far richer and more transformative than these misconceptions might suggest. For Catholics, confession is a profound encounter with God’s mercy, an act of vulnerability and accountability that helps us heal and grow in our walk with God. The sacrament embodies the belief that our spiritual lives are deeply communal—that reconciliation requires not only an internal dialogue with God but also an outward acknowledgment of our shortcomings to another person, who represents Christ and the Church.

The act of speaking my sins aloud—to name what I’ve done wrong and to admit my failings—is profoundly humbling. It requires honesty with myself and a willingness to confront what I’ve done that I regret. Unlike asking for forgiveness in the privacy of one’s room, the sacrament of confession offers a tangible, embodied way of reckoning with my actions. It transforms my understanding of sin, helping me move from shame to genuine contrition and from guilt to a renewed sense of purpose. And the absolution I receive reminds me that while I am called to pursue holiness, I am also loved and supported in my imperfection.

I want to be careful here, as I don’t want to paint an idealized picture of confession. For many people in the Church, and especially for Catholic women, the experience of confession has been one distinguished by harm. For several Catholics, verbal abuse, sexism, and other forms of inappropriate conduct at the hands of priests has taken what is supposed to be a means for grace and a way of healing and twisted it into something painful and distressing. Not to mention the fact that many of the Examination of Conscience booklets that are available at parishes and online are a little too dogmatic, political, and sex-focused.

As with the Church more generally, I greatly love the Sacrament of Reconciliation while also recognizing the ways in which it has been a less-than-favorable experience for many Catholics. Parishes need to encourage the faithful to leave the confessional booth when inappropriate behavior of any kind occurs, and for this to be reported. Greater systemic change must always be demanded. These forms of truth telling are deeply, deeply prophetic and must be regarded as such.

And at the same time, we can continue to value the grace that this sacrament extends and the purpose it can serve for all Catholics, in our grief and regret.

As theology PhD student Flora Tang writes in her wonderful Medium piece “Examination of Conscience for the Wandering Soul”:

“God listens to our fears, our sorrows, our failures, and our burdens. We voice these confessions of ours out loud in vulnerability — rather than just in the silence of our hearts — to open ourselves up to the healing and reconciling grace of God and of our community.

May this reconciling grace of God that we receive through others be a reminder that we, too, must go forth and be mediators of God’s reconciliation, mercy, and peace.”7

Through this sacrament, I have come to see sin not as a permanent, immovable stain but as a wound that, when brought into the light, can be healed, just as in Song of the Sea and A Christmas Carol. My regrets cannot be repressed- they must be dealt with. And these regrets, in fact, are not just a corrective, but a sign that my internal world- my moral framework and spiritual life- are operating as they should be. In regret, I’m able to see when I could’ve lived better, loved better. I’m able to move forward as God, in His mercy, “sponge[s] away the writing on the stone.”

Reflection Questions for the New Year

As I reflect on this, I’m led into deeper contemplation about what it means to live with these “negative” emotions accompanying me as friends, not foes, in the coming year. I’ve included some reflection questions I’m thinking about as we approach the 1st. I tend to shy away from the language of “resolutions” because, at least for the very beginning of the year, I want to be looking inward at what is working and what isn’t before charting my course forward in bullet points. Actionable steps are necessary, but my original resolve begins in reverie.

1. What in 2024 helped you feel restored or renewed amidst the noise?

2. What pieces of art— books, music, visual art—were important to you in the past year? How might they shape your approach to the year ahead?

3. What do you regret most from the past year? Why?

4. In what areas of your life did you experience the most growth in 2024?

5. What practices or habits from this past year nurtured your spiritual life?

6. Where do you feel a need for deeper reconciliation, either with yourself, others, or God?

7. What behaviors or practices are you letting go of as we move into 2025? What do you hope to hold onto and continue to nourish?

8. How can you engage more honestly with your emotions and avoid repressing grief, regret, etc. in the coming year?

9. What relationships in your life need more intentional attention, and how can you give them that attention?

10. As you look ahead to 2025, where can you take a risk in your spiritual life? How can you seek to avoid the constrains of a comfortable faith, and listen to what is more strongly demanding something of you?

Let me know what you’re reflecting on going into 2025! I’m off to finish Mike Flanagan’s The Fall of the House of Usher, a 2023 gothic horror drama miniseries inspired by various works of Edgar Allen Poe. I’ve been on a bit of a Flanagan kick this year (it may have something to do with the religious imagery…). And early on Sunday, I’m off to Virginia to visit my (former) college roommate and (continual) best friend. I haven’t seen her in almost eight months and am very excited.

I’m wishing you all a beautiful New Year!

Warmly,

Julia